Concrete
by GorgeousGalaxy
Summary: It's a funny thing, running.
1. Chapter 1

**_Chapter One_**

They're all dead. Lifeless, just another immobile object. That's how all these people seem to be. I try to make them into something _more_, but they don't listen. Can't you _see_? These citizens of Gotham, all so anxiously waiting for their own storybook ending…it won't be happy.

They've all seemed too have forgotten about what we are, not civilized humans but animals who are savage and filled with unacknowledged _rage_. We run on it, like the adrenaline of a gazelle escaping from the lion. You can only go so far before it _catches up _with you.

It's not about money, rules, government, religion or power. It's about choosing whether to be a _cause _or _effect_. What are you, the reason for the direction our world is headed...or what happens when we get there? Can you hear me _Batsy_? I'm talking about you. You can't prevent destruction; all you can do is slow it down.

It's a lust, a want, a need…to see us head to the breaking point of our conceded and selfish minds. I'll watch as people kill each other in the streets and get the tingle of self accomplishment, knowing that I helped lead us to the long awaited finale. I wait for the absolute destruction of order, the final plan of our demise caused by none other than ourselves. And I'll be sure to _laugh._

You want _truth_, is that it? My truth is the brutal facts that this disgusting, peace driven country decides to ignore. They're all too afraid to look inside themselves and realize that they're not as _perfect _as they really think they are. It's a joke that lost its humor years ago.

This planet could use a bit of thinning out of the rapidly growing population. I'm only doing us all a favor by pitching in. Call it an act of _selflessness_. Just like what I'll do for Gotham, or what I already have done.

Boundaries…Consequences…It's all a bunch of nothingness. _Why?_ Because I have already defied these laws of….let's say _insufficiency_. Nothing makes sense anymore, and it doesn't have too. Nothingness, _Nothing._ Get it?

Oh, but that began _years_ ago, the nothingness. A time where my mind began its slow decay into a maddening fury. A time where I was another face waiting to be _beaten_ down, its entrails so beautifully placed around its form in a halo of glorification. Doesn't it make you want to _smile_?

Running. Hiding. Waiting. But afraid? No, no. Never. They're searching for me, as if I'm a strand of hay in a needle stack. They're only going to get more _damage_ the harder they _look_. Ha. Ha.

They think they'll catch me, that they'll somehow be able to lock me away. But they're not the ones hunting anymore, because I'm going in for the _kill_. Why can't Gotham's great, caped crusader see the good that I'm actually doing for this place? Of course, everyone knows bats are _blind, _but anarchy isn't an invisible force.

All these _citizens,_ going through their day as if it's a dream, unreal. Oh, but it's not. _It's not. _If they weren't so afraid to step out of the gray and into oblivion, they could see that its as close to being _alive_ as you can get. Gotham, I hear you calling for me, begging me to return and show them life's real meaning. And I will. But not now. It's not safe yet. Not safe, _not. _

Who am I? That's what they all want to know. But what's _funny_ is I don't think they even know who they are. Who are _they__? _Everyone who tries to ignore that cry, that _scream,_ begging to be released into the world._ To destroy it. To. Burn. It._ Sorry, my pathe_tic_ audience, but I'm not the one wearing a different _face._

And what about you? What about you, _Bat_man? Who are you? That's the question everyone should be asking. The shadow that protects them, that makes them feel so safe. They're not. Oh, no. And when I return, Gotham, _you never will be._

Time_. Time._ It ticks away_. Ticking. _Where am I?_ I need to go back. _Chicago...was it a month? More? Time. I'm losing track. _I need to go back. I__t's Friday...or was Friday..._

Gotham_. What's the__ time_?

_

* * *

_

_**Chicago**_

_**9:42 A.M**_

Late. _Late_. He can't even recall the meaning of words, phrases. But he knows that it's late, and he has somewhere to be. Somewhere. Does he even know where that _is_? The answer is no. But he doesn't need to know. Fate will lead him. Isn't that what everyone believes? Fate. Destiny. Lies.

The joke: it's not late. In fact, it's the morning. His blinds are just closed too tight to tell.

Wake up. Wake up. _Wake up!_

_"No."_

But the things. The things! What about all the work that you did, all the tests...all the _planning._

He's up.

And it hits him.

_"John, why don't you go out and walk around the city for a while? You've been stuck in the house too long. Come on, baby, get out of the bed."_

_"Baby, who were those men outside? Are you in some kind of trouble?"_

_"Marie...What are you doing? You shouldn't be looking at those."_

_"I saw the letter, John! Who's Jack Napier? Is that your name? Who are you? Where's the man I married?"_

_"__It hurts, John...You're hurting me!"_

_Don't do this to me, Marie. Can't you see, I did it all because I love you! Why can't you see that?"_

_"They promised money...money that we need."_

_"I hear you have a wife, _Napier. _You don't want to see her get hurt, do you?"_

_"Mr. John Williams? I'm so sorry...there's been an accident. Your wife, Marie...she's dead."_

_"Why are you doing this to me? I did what you asked! **Why did you take my wife?"**_

"_You should stop frowning, Jacky boy. Smile, huh? Come on and smile!"_

_"Don't let him go!"_

_"This will only hurt for a while."_

_"You shouldn't have let her get involved. She's was such a nice girl."_

_"__Sometimes bad things happen to good people, _Jack."

Good people.

He was a good person.

He was a killer, a liar, and a thief. But he was a good person. He just did bad things.

The memories, the flashes...they hit him like an acid trip. The tears, they come first. Salty and painful. He breaks something. Yells. Screams. It's raw...It's real...the emotions tease him.

Finally, he laughs. They build up as giggles, escalating to high pitched wales.

And then he forgets. Because there was nothing to remember in the first place. You see, the memories...they were _**lies**_. They were never real. And he knows that. As fast as they come...they disappear. And the story always changes. A brother, a mother, a wife. A father, a friend, a child, their _life. _

He didn't know what happened before all of this. But he knows his purpose, and he will pursue it. Destroy. Burn. Ruin. He hears it and listens, because it's what he does best. He has a _purpose_.

Chicago, it's almost ten o'clock.

Morning mass is coming to an end in one of the city's renowned cathedrals. A mother and her son decide to leave early. An elderly couple arrive late. A small girl with blonde hair plays hopscotch in front of the steps. You can hear the preacher's words drift out the door as someone walks inside.

He set's the detonator, let's out a contented sigh, and looks up into the sky. It's a sunny day. Not a cloud to be seen. He can change that.

The fireworks..._begin._

"Beautiful."

* * *

A/N: A thanks to **HoistTheColors**! Expect the second chapter soon.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

It wasn't that he saw no colors, or did not know the smell of a rose. It wasn't that he couldn't spell love, or hear the lullaby of a woman's laughter. If anything, he knew more than others the sensation of what an obsession can do to an individual.

In his mind, he was an artist. What he showed to the world was a masterpiece oh so beautifully disguised. It was the significance, the meaning, the statement that his work displayed that meant more than the creation. But everyone else only shrank back in horror. Were they blind? Couldn't they see the message behind it all? To him it appeared crystal clear, you just had to look with an unclouded mind and think with open eyes. Reverse the order. It isn't hard.

In his adolescence he couldn't understand how the world could be so ignorant. _Give them time._ Yes, maybe they just needed more time to development and fully understand his work. Patience, he reminded himself. Let their minds evolve as his did. They all just need to find their sanity. Sooner or later he would come to realize that he was the one who had lost it in the first place.

They're everywhere, his canvases. They can be anything. Sometimes it's a person and other times a structure. This time it was Gotham. _Demolish. Destroy. Create. _The artist inside himself called out, and he was always happy to answer.

_'All these citizens, going through their day as if it's a dream, unreal.' _Isn't that what _you're_ doing? Time. _Time_. When was the last time you woke up to daylight? Your feet are off the ground and you're floating in mid-air. _Plans! PLANS! **PLANS! **_

But you never plan. Isn't that right? An artist does not know what he paints until it is complete. _Your job isn't finished._

It is in an array of colors that we find beauty, for one color that stands alone is nothing without another. Something defined as perfection, meaningless without a reason to be provided. Is it in theory that such a conclusion comes to mind, a theory based on unbalanced opinions? What do people even know about true beauty? Only what they have been told. Society no longer thinks for itself, no longer comes to their own conclusion.

And yet there is such a thing as destructive perfection. It is wild, spontaneous, and unpredictable. It cannot be weighed, measured, or changed. Beauty will never be held down and tamed. Colors overlap one another in a constant battle of dominance, blues are cried and reds spilled. _Especially_ red. Red. _Red._ What was red? What _is _red?

You're forgetting again, the meaning of words. Is it the memories? Memories of a time filled with horror?

Don't you remember? It's morning. The artist didn't sleep. He was up all night working at his easel. What did you paint? A tree? A cloud? Or was it a _little girl with pigtails? _Who is she? You know this. You know everything about this little girl. Her favorite dress was the blue one with ribbons on the sleeves, her favorite toy was a tiny stuffed cat named _Angel. _You named it, don't you remember? Because that was what she was to you. A heaven sent child with wings.

_'No...I never had a child...'_

You tore off those wings. Her back bled with scars, pooling around her delicate brown hair. She called out for you, begged you on her weak, broken knees to save her. Are you _deaf_? Can't you hear her tears? What's_ wrong _with you?

"_Angel, what happened? Why are you crying?"_

_"..."_

_"Sweetie?"_

_"...It was that bad boy...that boy with red hair and freckles who rides...rides his bike around here..."_

Six years old. She was so young. You knew that boy. Freshman in high school. Spoiled.

_"He made me do something, daddy. I didn't like it."_

"_...Tell me what he made you do, baby."_

_"The ground hurt against my back...He pushed me down...he ripped my dress. My favorite dress, daddy. He told me to say I liked it..."_

What happened to that bad boy? You know the answer. _She was your little angel. You were only trying to protect her._

'_She isn't real...This never happened.'_

It turned out that freshman had a very powerful father. His daddy just wanted to protect his kid, too.

'_He was protecting a monster...'_

Monster. Poor choice of words.

The red headed boy's daddy arrived at your house a day later. You could see his son from the kitchen window, sitting in the car with his head held down. Even at the distance, the purple and yellow bruise down the side of his face was distinguishable. Someone had squealed on you.

'_He deserved it...'_

The boy's father pulled out a pistol from his coat. A large burly man followed from behind. You ran to grab your Angel. She was sleeping in her room.

'_Not real...NOT real_...'

Oh. You didn't make it in time. They were already coming through the front door. **_Bang Bang!_**

And the floor bled red.

He squatted down, and you could smell his cologne. "_You shouldn't have fucked with my son." _He walked down the hall to your daughter's room. The big man from before flipped you over, a blade gleaming in his hand. And as he pulled it towards your face, you could hear the gunshot from the back of the house. A single shot.

What was your daughter's name again?

Oh, wait, you know what it was...

'_Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! It..it wasn't...It never happened!'_

You named her after her mother. Your adoring wife. It was-

"**_ENOUGH!"_**

...

...

...

Enough of _what_? You're an artist. You create, and that includes memories. It's only a portrait. It was your _choice_ to give it a story. And there are always a multiple of choices.

By the time you make it to Seattle you'll have already forgotten about her. Your little Angel.

Gotham_...what ever happened to reality?_

* * *

_**Seattle**_

_**11:53 P.M**_

It's late, isn't it?

The view is absolutely spectacular. This city is nowhere near the size of Gotham, though. Puny in comparison. Would anyone even miss it? But that's not what I'm here for. This time it's just to let them know that I can be _anywhere. _That this is just a _game._

An important political figure is meant to arrive here tomorrow. Noon. What does it mean to be_ important_? Just another human. Let's see how great he is without legs to _walk_, without a mouth to _speak_, without a head to _think_. Anthing can be destroyed, therefore nothing holds _significance._

Except for the message. It's always what remains.

"Isn't it wonderful?"

Someone's talking to me. I turn to see a woman with red, curly hair. _Red._

A smile. A nod. "Yes, it is."

She smiles back, her blues eyes sparkling. _Burn. Gouge. Rip. Bleed. _All she sees is a man in awe. _Can't you see the scars? _Of course not. They're hidden.

"It's very pretty, yea..." That's all she was. Pretty. But when I imagined her face cut up, those sapphire eyes nothing but dark pits, I realized how I could make her beautiful.

* * *

_**12:05 A.M**_

_****__**Location: Area surrounding Space Needle**_

"That is why, citizens of Seattle, I plan to create a better environment not only for ourselves, but our children. They are our future!"

_Cheers. Smiles. _They were eating from his palm. But I know who this man really is. A _filthy_ excuse for living. How many prostitutes was it this time? _Five seconds_. You know how to manipulate these people, make them squeal. They only want to hear what satisfies them. And that's what you do.

_Three..._

_Two..._

_One..._

And the clock reached zero.

It was like an audience of a billion had begun clapping, as flames and smoke on the stage filled the air with ash. Screams sounded like bells, and it was absolute_ music._

Only one man was left laughing.

_Timing...It's what matters._

* * *

**A/N: **I decided to not introduce other characters for a while. I like it better this way.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

_To be normal._

For a moment, everything seems...bright, too bright. Pine, I smell it. Bitter. It's strange knowing I have time to notice things like this anymore.

_Strange_...the word that casts its shadow over me. Oh, the irony.

Where was I two days ago? I can still see the ashes. It's riveting. The image of petrified faces is still fresh. Oh, but _his_ expression was the best, being that there wasn't a _face_ to see.

Mister John Satchel, who was it that had to identify your corpse? Was it your son? I hope so,_ God_ I do. You should really be happy to know how ecstatic you've made me! How important are you now, without a mouth to _spew_ disgusting lies? No more lonely Friday nights with your favorite whores, huh? That's all you ever were. Lonely. Depressed. Sound familiar? You had been feeling so low lately...but I lifted you up, up towards the sky! All that smoke...You don't need medication to feel that kind of high.

_Your thoughts are in the clouds...You did it all for her._

It must have driven you positively insane that morning when you couldn't find your prescriptions. All those people would be looking up at you, hanging on to your every word. There's just no possible way you could deal with that kind of stress without your happy pills. Oh, come now Mister Satchel, you were only a few more suicide attempts away from ending it all anyway. Who was I, a gentleman, but to give you what you wanted. No, what everyone _needed_. One less degenerate in this world, right? I couldn't have taken any more of that babble you said on that stage. Laugh it off, chief. Let's not forget how popular I made you on T.V. last night. I remember seeing the news lady's face...

"_Flames...they engulfed everything__...Oh my God, I just received word that they may have found the body of Gotham City's previous councilman John Satchel. They're...They're saying they may not be able to get a positive I.D from dentals...The charred remains of a few citizens is still being discovered among the debris...God..."_

God?

_God had no part in this...it was just pure entertainment._

But now I'm here, sitting on this bench. Tranquil, but it's only an illusion. Just on the other side of this small patch of wilderness are skyscrapers and buildings tall enough to break clouds. What are they trying to play at? This is nothing but an dirty, grimy, sleaze infested city, and I'm in the middle of it all. Central Park may be nice, but it's a _fake._

_You're Fake. Are you real? What is reality anymore? _

You know, New York City is almost close enough to Gotham that I could consider it home. But no, Gotham's more beautiful, there's more death in the streets. And let's not forget it's most prized citizen! I wonder how that old Bat is doing. I bet he misses me. I miss him.

_It's been so boring..._

When will he finally get the point of all this? How difficult could it be to understand? I'm not a complicated person and even I can unravel it all. You just have to commit yourself, forget morals, put a little effort into it. Unless he's just like the others, Batman is just as incompetent as the rest of them all...I would hope not. Where would that leave me?

_Alone._

I'm not...

___Insane._  


We all have our quirks...

_Outcast._

That's a bit harsh. How can I be alone when you are always there _bothering_ me? _Reminding_ me?

_Message.**.**_

It's all about making a point...

_Gotham_...when will I come home to you?

* * *

**_New York City_**

**_8:19 A.M_**

Bruce Wayne cringed as he listened to the echo of his footsteps down the marble floored hall. He hated making noise, hated the shoes he had to wear, and most of all despised the chipper woman that was following him. Her name was Michelle, his new assistant. She read over a sum of what would be an absolute nightmare.

"Now, Mr. Wayne, we will be proceeding with one of World Industries branch unit presidents, discussing our newly appointed operations. First, they will ask for our charts and current sales with other company branch members, then, when we awe them with our oh-so massive numbers, we'll pull them in stating our newly designed Army Mission Tactic Devices, or A.M.T.D. Oh my gosh, this is so exciting to be working with..."

Bruce tried his absolute hardest to pay attention to the petite, blonde assistant as she bombarded him with information he honestly had no interest in. This whole 'branch meeting' was completely bogus. He planned to show them a business deal, capture their curiosity, and then deny them all privileges to the rights of ownership. How many times did he have to do this before they all got the point that he didn't need them? _'Calm down. This is who you are for now. I'll be back in Gotham by tomorrow...Deal with it, Bruce.'_

"...-arter. He's been with W.I. since the beginning, starting with his father, Donald Carter..."

Nodding, Bruce hardly registered what she was saying. It was all just an act. Inside, Batman scowled._ 'I tracked you down...I know you're in this city somewhere.' _That was the only reason he came here. How long had he been searching? How long had he been hiding his other self? Bruce Wayne, famous bachelor, makes his way across the country to proceed with new company deals. But what was it all really for?

To find _him_. The psychopath who destroyed everything important to him.

Batman was number one on every wanted list in the nation for the murder of someone he had tried to _save_, a person who he had at one time considered a friend. And all this was happening while that murdering clown was on some type of disorganized killing spree! '_The F.B.I couldn't even manage to keep him in custody long enough to send him to Arkham Asylum.'_

"...-ot much of a sense of humor. You may want to watch what you say around him..."

Another nod._ 'You murdered him, didn't you? John Satchel, councilman for Gotham City...but why? What did you have against him?'_ Maybe there wasn't a _why. _What had the Joker been doing in Chicago? What did a cathedral have to do with anything? Perhaps he just wanted to watch the aftermath... All these questions...Batman wanted answers.

Bruce held in a sigh and ran a hand over his black hair._ 'Just get it the hell over with.' _Stopping in front of the double doors, he anxiously glanced at his watch. "I hope I can still make it to breakfast by the time this is over."

The assistant stared at him expectantly. "Um, Mr...Mr. Wayne? Do you want me to go in or..."

"Just stay here, Michelle. Keep a look out for me, will you?" He gave her a wink.

She giggled. "Okay."

Acknowledging the assistant's words of encouragement, Bruce opened the tinted glass door, plastering a smile to his face. He entered a meeting room with a glass ceiling and a large, oval table meticulously set in the center. It ran the length of almost the entire room. The windows, going from the floor to ceiling, held a spectacular view of N.Y.C, and on each side of the table were at least twelve chairs. Only one was occupied by an antsy looking man in a black suit. _'Where's his negotiations team?'_

Bruce walked over, set down his briefcase and shook the man's hand. " "Sorry I'm late. You know how it is trying to get around this city at such an early hour, I'm sure."

He grasped the billionaire's hand firmly. "Of course. You don't even know the hassle I went through to get here. I'm James Carter, president and one of the founders of World Industries. It's good to finally meet the notorious Bruce Wayne."

Bruce tried to conceal his surprise. "Forgive me, I uh...I was expecting someone older than myself. You're the president of W.I?"

Mr. Carter grinned, tucking back a loose dark blonde strand of hair from his pulled back ponytail. Wayne noticed that there was something off about him. "It's more of a family operation. I'm sure you can understand that."

"I believe I do...Are you sure we haven't met before?"

"Can't say we have. What was this with a um...Army Mission...thing?"

Bruce's jaw twitched in slight annoyance, quickly brushing it aside. "Army Missions Tactic Device. Where is your team?"

"They're around. Probably went to go grab a cup of coffee, worthless caffeine addicts."

"Shouldn't we wait for them?"

Carter shrugged. "We're grown men, I'm sure we can do this all by ourselves."

"Are you sure? I-"

"Can you believe they have a four star restaurant in here? The things this building wastes its money on, I swear."

"You own this building..."

"I know."

"...Right." Setting himself down, Bruce punched in the code to his briefcase, trying his best to ignore the odd way Mr. Carter rocked back and forth in his chair. The case clicked open and he pulled out the manila envelope labeled 'A.M.T.D'.

"Pretty tight security for such a low tech device," Carter commented.

Bruce closed the case. "You can never be too careful."

"I can imagine, especially when you're carrying around the layouts for higher, more efficient weapons in there."

Wayne glanced down to his briefcase, aware of the blueprints to some of his newest Bat gadgets he had brought with him. "I'm sorry...you must be confused. Now, back to the-"

Carter held his hand up, a motion for Bruce to stop speaking. Leaning forward, he whispered, as if sharing a secret to a schoolyard friend, "Come on, Bruce. We both know this is just a shitty toy to please the childish needs of our rather insufficient army...Where are you hiding the real goodies?"

Clenching his fist behind his back, Bruce put on a look of confusion. "Mr. Carter, I honestly have no clue what you're talking about."

"Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat?"

Carter only laughed. "What? No! No, I just want us to be friends, business partners. And partners share everything with each other, right?"

"I'd hardly consider you an acquittance."

James clucked his tongue, staring down his nose at Bruce with dark pits. "What's the matter, playboy? Don't want to share your new play things with anyone else?"

Bruce laughed, despite himself. "I'd prefer to keep some of Wayne Enterprises's work to myself, if you don't mind. I'm sure World Industries has a few of their own secrets."

"I wouldn't know anything about that."

"What, you're own business doesn't want you in on their club?"

Carter giggled at the remark. "W.I. can't even keep its own employers _insured, _so why would I want any part of such a terrible operation? You don't get it, Brucey. It's all about getting something across to the other big, bad business people out there. They're all shouting at one another, 'I have better sales, I have the better lawyers,' like children who never _shut up_ about how fucking _spoiled_ they are. It's a dog eat dog world and we're the only _felines_..." He stopped himself. "So come on Mr. Wayne. Let's rub elbows."

The billionaire only stared, amused with how this was playing out. "While that was a very...convincing speech, I've made my point and I'm sticking with it."

Carter rolled his eyes."Your point is dull. Then again, being a cat, my curiosity can get the best of me."

This was turning out to be an interesting morning for Bruce Wayne. "There's nothing to be curious about. All I have with me today to discuss is the A.M.T.D. There are plenty of other matters I would enjoy attending to."

James realized it was time to stop beating around the bush. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Oh, you're no fun. My mistake then. Well, obviously we both had different intentions for the outcome of this little get together. I honestly don't want to waste anymore of your time or mine. Have fun with your little game-boys." Picking up his suitcase, Carter took an unnecessary bow, swiftly leaving the room. Outside, as he hummed to himself, he grinned and wagged his eyebrows at Michelle. "Bit of a dim-witted one, isn't he darling?"

Back inside the office, Bruce sat in one of the chair for a few more moments, stunned, just staring as the door swung shut. _'What the hell was that? Who the hell did he think he was..?'_

Picking up his case and dusting off his suit, he walked out of the room. His assistant stared at him with wide eyes.

"How did it go?"

The billionaire just walked past her. _'James Carter...He never waited for his team to return...'_

He paused. "...Michelle!"

The assistant perked up, trying her best to keep up with his pace. "Yes sir?"

"Who exactly is James Carter?"

The woman stopped, puzzled. "I don't know. Who's that?"

Bruce turned around, facing her with equal confusion. "The young man I just met with. World Industries."

Michelle tilted her head. "You mean _Edwin_ Carter? He's sixty-six, I'd hardly consider that young."

The marble halls were dead silent. In those moments, Wayne realized how heavy his briefcase was. Lifting it and setting it against his ear, he listened...

_Tick..._

_Tick..._

_Tick..._

Time didn't slow, it sped up. In a moment of panic, Bruce threw the suitcase back into the room, grabbed Michelle's arm and dragged her behind him as he ran down the hall shouting, "EVERYONE GET OUT! THERE'S A-"

And then there was applause...like an audience of a thousand...Bright lights danced across the walls.

The explosion knocked him and the woman forward. Bruce instinctively tried to cover himself, unsuccessfully doing so and banged his head against the floor. Blood trickled down his forehead as he lay sprawled out on the ground and he could only watch, dazed, as flames formed behind him.

Looking over, his assistant gazed at him with clouded eyes. Protruding from her chest was a foot long shard of glass. In it, he saw his reflection...an image of Rachel Dawes appeared. Guilt enveloped his mind.

Somehow, Bruce managed to pull out his cellphone. It took him three tries to dial 911. By then the fire that had started was already halfway down the hall. He covered his mouth as to not breathe in the dense cloud of smoke._"911 operator, what's the emergency?"_

"Bomb...send help..."

"_Sir?...Sir? We're gathering your location now..."_

When was the last time he had ever felt this helpless? It all seemed so obvious now.

_'I'm sorry Rachel...'_

Saving everyone was an impossible feat, even for Batman.

Outside the building, just across the street, James Carter watched as the windows of the top floor blew out, glass littering the street below. Around him, people scurried and screamed.

No one took notice of the only man laughing.

* * *

_So easy...Almost child's play._

_When does this get serious?_

Never.

_You opened it. You memorized the code...What was inside?_

Fun. So many things...

And what was this?

Bruce Wayne...there's more to you than meets the eye.

_Is it possible?_

_Blueprints..._

_You want things that make noise..._

You? I am _you_.

_From now on it's **we.**_

_**

* * *

A/N: **_I'm not too particularly happy with the lack of inspiration I'm having at the moment with this...Oh well. Don't worry, the story will lose its confusing, dreamy state in the next chapters. Reviews are appreciated.


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